Let Despair Turn to Beauty
by Falling from Sin
Summary: A disfigured young man yearns to see if a young lady from his past remembers him, but she is kept from him by her talented and handsome tutor, Erik. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Let Despair Turn to Beauty  
**by Falling from Sin

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**Author's note: **This comes from a VERY old conversation that took place on POL back in July 2006. I've been meaning to write it for ages. So here it is.

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_Grand Gala at the Académie Nationale de Musique_

_Featuring performances by La Carlotta, La Krauss and La Daaé_

_And music by Camille Saint-Saëns, Jules Massenet, Jean Baptiste Faure, Ernest Reyer and many others._

_Saturday 25th June, 7:00pm_

-_Le Temps_, published Saturday 11th June, 1881

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**Chapter One: Raoul**

The brand new servant that my brother had hired the day before took one glance at me before she rushed out of my path. I had not had the fortune, or was it misfortune, of meeting her before, and I was certain that she would hand in her resignation at the end of the day. I mentally scolded myself as I walked down the hall away from my suite of rooms. Just because five maids had quit their rather high paying job because of the boss's brother did not mean that this young lady would. She might have better nerves than the others. Though considering how she had run from my sight, I was pretty sure it was just wishful thinking.

My older brother, Philippe, sat in the dining room; the newspaper, _Le Temps_, spread across the table as he ate a croissant for his morning meal. Had there been guests in the manor, he would never have cast himself in such an undignified light, but this morning there was only myself and the servants, so he was not as concerned. As I sat down at the table, most of the servants in the room scattered, all excusing themselves to do chores in other parts of the house. It was Madame Patrice, affectionately known as Cook, who brought in my breakfast of a jam filled croissant and black coffee. She patted my hand as she left the room and I smiled. At least one of the servants in this house was not afraid of me. Though if Cook had been scared of me, I would have questioned it. She had been with the family since before I had been born – since Philippe had been a young boy, actually. She had seen me grow up and knew me to be no monster, even if my face lied otherwise.

Philippe did not acknowledge my presence. He was too engrossed in his newspaper as he normally was. He knew I was there, however, and before I had to ask he shuffled the pages he had finished with across to me so that I could read of what had been happening in Paris.

The various newspapers that Philippe made it a habit to buy were my only contact with the outside world. I was the younger brother that everyone knew about but no one acknowledged, out of fear of putting the family into disrepute. I knew my sisters had even denied they had a younger brother. It was a fact that hurt, but something that I tried not to let on. Other than the newspapers, the only other time I was exposed to the outside world was my annual trip to Brittany that had become a ritual since I had been a young boy. My first trip to Lannion had been the most pleasant time I had ever had. My aunt who lived there had no children of her own, and so she lavished attention on even an unworthy child such as myself. And not only had there been her, but another who had put her fear behind herself and treated me with kindness. And since then, I had made the trip to Brittany every year, hoping to catch another glimpse of the kind soul. But unfortunately, I never had.

As usual, I devoured the newspaper, reading every article, even the ones that bordered more on the lines of gossip than news. I knew of most of the people that were featured – Philippe made sure I knew the names and stories of all his friends and acquaintances, even if I would never meet them under any circumstances. I knew my brother felt bad for my predicament and it was his mission to involve me in everything he did, even if it was only second-hand experiences.

It was this reason that a certain advertisement caught my attention. It was for a gala that was being hosted by _l'Académie Nationale de Musique _and that would take place in two weeks time. Philippe spent a lot of time at the Opera, though I knew it was not for the quality of the music. No, the fair Sorelli danced there, a lady who I had heard a lot about. My brother was enamoured with her, though he would never admit it. She was just a dancer whose company he enjoyed, he tried to convince me and others who happened to ask after her. Nothing more than that.

The name of La Carlotta was very familiar to me, as once again, I had heard an awful lot about her. Philippe called her a diva and said that she gave herself airs and graces to try and put herself far above all the other performers. Indeed, she liked to pretend that she was aristocracy and would often make demands on others as though she was a member of that prestigious few. The actual aristocracy would not take it, however, which did not surprise me. Why would the snobbish society open the fold to someone who was born to middle class, when they would not admit the son of one of the oldest families in France just because he was unsightly through no fault of his own?

I also knew the name of La Krauss, though perhaps not as well as La Carlotta. But I had never heard of La Daaé. The name sounded dreadfully familiar, however, and so I tore out the advertisement and took it with me to the library after I bid Philippe a good day.

It was the library where I spent most of my day. I tried to stay out of the way of the jittery maids and so I made sure that they would always know where I was so that they could avoid me. At least in the library I had access to the many books and papers that would allow me to pretend I was somewhere other than in a manor in Paris.

It was becoming a very bright and sunny day. The sunlight glinted off the lone window in the library, forcing it to catch the reflections of anything that was near it. As my own visage was imitated on the smooth glass, I felt the need to break the window, though I somehow managed to constrain my uncharacteristic burst of temper. There were no mirrors in our home for an extremely good reason, after all. The sight of the white mask that I wore at all times was enough to provoke me to violence.

My mother had died giving birth to me, and in my younger days, cruel servants had taunted that she had taken one look at my defected face and had died of fright. After my father had been informed of their teasing by Cook, he had dismissed quite a few, leaving the de Chagny household with much more loyal, albeit frightened, servants. Though their nasty words did still reach me – they were never told to my face anymore, but I heard things like "devil child" and "monster" all the time. They were a superstitious bunch which was something that made me sad, not only for myself but for them.

My family had protected me. It was this reason that I was not to venture outside when we were in Paris. They were afraid of the way people would treat me, though I knew my father's main concern had been the scandal that would befall the family if they knew the youngest son was a monster. When he died, however, my sisters made no secret to the fact that they blamed their lack of marriage offers on me. Philippe did not stand for it, though, and as soon as they both had offers, he married them off straight away. For some reason, he felt that it was his duty to shelter me from all that was horrible and mean in the world, and so I had remained cosseted from anyone who could insult or hurt me.

But I tried not to agonize over my cursed facade. I had more important things to think about, such as where I had heard the name, 'La Daaé' before. But try as I might, the connection was escaping me.

Aimlessly, I wandered over to a bookshelf in the library and plucked out a book at random. It was a geography book and written in English, so it was sure to keep me occupied for a little while. I had not been learning the language for very long, but I was hoping to be able to speak it fluently by the end of the year, like I could French and Italian. I had so much time to myself that I made it my mission to learn as much as I could. Perhaps if I was extremely knowledgeable, the public might accept me for who I was. It was a child's dream, but a dream I clung to nonetheless.

The geography book's talk of Brittany made me think, once again, of the charming town of Lannion. The one summer where I had met little Christine had been very lovely indeed. She had been frightened of me at first – who wouldn't be, in all truth – but she had learnt not to judge me because of my face.

She had a beautiful voice, and as I remembered it, I found myself longing to hear it again. She had sung as her father played the violin, and the love that they had for each other was very apparent in every melody of the song. Just like every day since I last saw her, I wondered where little Christine Daaé was now.

Daaé. Was it possible that the little angel with the flaxen curls was the La Daaé who had been advertised by the Opera House that very morning? She had certainly been a nice singer then, and I was certain that she could easily have become an opera singer with training.

I wanted to see her. I wanted to know if it was her with such an overwhelming intensity that I was afraid of what I would do if I did not have the opportunity.

I placed the geography book on the table next to my big armchair haphazardly and went back over to one of the bookcases, searching for a book I knew was there. It was a rather old journal – something that Philippe had spent an awful lot of money to get for me – and it gave the plans for Garnier's Opera House in full. Certainly, things had probably been changed since then, both in construction and during renovations, but it could give me a reasonable idea of where things were and how to avoid people in the actual building.

I had a reasonable idea of the floor plans by the time Cook brought my lunch up to me. I knew exactly how I could get in and out without being seen, and I knew a few of the backstage passages that would allow me to see the stage and decide whether it was Christine Daaé singing in that gala. And a plan was forming in my head. I knew that Philippe would be extremely angry with me if he ever found out, but I would have to make sure that he did not.

Once I saw Christine Daaé, I would never leave the house again. But I had to see her, and the gala would be the perfect opportunity to do it.

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It took all my determination not to let Philippe see my excitement about the gala. But even had I jumped from the roof and yelled out that I was attending, I don't think he would have noticed. He was in a surly mood all week, something that I attributed to the extra rehearsals that all cast members at the Opera would inevitably be experiencing. The charming Sorelli did not have time to see him at the moment and it was eating at him. Indeed, I would not have been surprised had his foul temper lasted the following week as well. But he was in a slightly better frame of mind the Saturday before the gala, due to a rehearsal he had been lucky enough to be privy to. 

"Oh Raoul, it is indeed a pity that you can't attend the gala," he said late that evening when he got home. Most of the servants had retired for the night and so I was sitting in the sitting room, reading in an armchair by the window. He sat in the chair opposite mine, pouring brandy into two glasses and pushing one towards me. He downed his in one swallow, though I sipped mine carefully, fully aware of the mask that reached to my lip and made eating and drinking rather difficult.

"Why is it a pity?" I asked, arching an eyebrow under the mask. Not that there was an eyebrow there, or that Philippe could see the action. But it was a habit that had come from watching my brother do the same thing.

"You have never heard music such as they play at the Opera," he told me, playing with the empty glass absentmindedly. "La Carlotta has a perfect, lovely voice and La Krauss will never disappoint. But it is La Daaé who will steal the show next Saturday. She sings like an angel and is as ethereal as one as well."

"Tell me about La Daaé," I requested, trying to stay inconspicuous. "I've never heard of her before."

"Oh, she is indeed divine," he said with a grin on his face. "Blonde curly hair, petite, and she seems as pure as one of God's angels. She's maybe about as old as you, and she looks so fragile. And somehow, this amazing voice comes out of her. I don't know where she stores it." Philippe looked off into space, and I studied him, seeing the look in his eyes. They betrayed an emotion that was usually reserved for La Sorelli, and I felt a flash of jealousy. If this La Daaé was indeed Christine, I did not want Philippe to lay his hands on her. I felt strangely protective, as though I could not allow her to be sullied in any way. However, I was being idiotic. I did not know this La Daaé at all. And even if she was the Christine I had known, she would not want to be socialising with a monster. People changed, especially when confronted by something repulsive. I knew that extremely well.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Let Despair Turn to Beauty**

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_Monsieur Poligny -_

_My pupil will be singing in the gala on the 25th of June. Please be aware that if she is not one of the major performers then I will be moving on to Italy. La Carlotta may have her nose out of joint, but Christine Daaé is a better singer than that spoilt brat. _

_I have been offered a position at the Teatro Constanzi in Rome, which I will be taking if you do not obey my orders. Miss Daae will also be leaving if I go._

_Have a think, Poligny, of which name is more famous: Carlotta Guidicelli, or Erik Courtois?_

_Until next time._

-A letter from resident composer, Erik Courtois, to a manager

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**Chapter Two: Christine**

"No, Christine!" The displeasure in his voice was evident and I winced out of habit. I had hit a wrong note, and it was painfully obvious. Though I shouldn't have done so – it was a note I had had no trouble with a month ago, but now that we were getting to a week before the performance, I was getting it incorrect at every opportunity.

My tutor sat at the piano across the room, stretching his long fingers impatiently and his back turned from me. I knew from how rigid he was that he was trying his hardest to calm down and not take his awful temper out on me. I chewed my lip waiting for the command to continue.

"Again, please." His voice was controlled, but there was that unmistakeable sound of anger in it, and I knew I would have to get this correct this time.

He placed his hands on the keys and began to play the introduction, and I could not help looking at his graceful form as he effortlessly coerced the piano into doing what he wanted it to. I was watching him so intently that I nearly missed my entry and it was only quick thinking that covered it. As I began the opening cadenza and he took his hands off the keys to turn and watch my form in the unaccompanied part, I forced my eyes away from his handsome face so that I would at least concentrate on what I was singing. I got through the cadenza with no problems and he turned back around, continuing with the accompaniment. But I had made the mistake of looking at him, and once again I was staring at him as he played. I could not even take my eyes away when he turned around and caught me looking; still playing the accompaniment as I sung to it. He was waiting for my mistake and it came, the same wrong note from before. The piano stopped straight away and he stood up.

My breath caught in my throat as he walked towards me; his height forcing me to crane my neck to keep eye contact. His eyes were golden, an amazing colour that I had never seen on a person before. Against his dark, almost black hair, they were striking, and I could not tear my limpid blue ones away.

He raised his hand, bringing his fingers to my cheek almost in a caress, but never touching me. But my cheek burned as though he had. I couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything save for watch the magnificent man in front of me.

"You are not concentrating, Mademoiselle Daaé."

I blushed and looked down, his spell over me broken. I could suddenly breathe again and the air that flooded my lungs was a welcome relief.

"I think that is enough for one day," he said, his beautiful voice drawing my eyes to him once again. "Please don't forget to practice, Christine. The gala is less than a week away."

He turned away, effectively dismissing me and I rushed from the room. There was something about him – something _dangerous_ – that frightened me. He had a hold on me that I could not escape, and every time I had a lesson with him, I could feel myself staring at him in wonder.

Erik Courtois had been my tutor since I had left the Conservatoire the year before. I had come to the Opera to sing in the chorus, half wanting to continue with my music but also never wanting to touch it again. Erik was the resident composer at the Opera, but sometimes gave advice to the leads and helped them with their parts. It was extremely unheard of for him to pay any attention to the chorus at all, other than to complain about how out-of-tune everyone was. But somehow, Erik had heard me and had insisted that I be brought under his tutelage.

I was very lucky to have him as a teacher, I knew. He had been one of the greatest ever tenors at Le Peletier, where the Opera had been situated before it had moved to the Garnier. He was now one of the most influential composers in Paris. And I had excelled – no longer did I sing like a crow, as some of the ballet students had described me. I had excelled so much that I now had a fairly good role in the gala that would be taking place, and my name had appeared in the newspaper.

Not everyone was happy about this, however. La Carlotta had gone out of her way to make my life miserable after the decision. She was certain that I was going to steal her limelight, something I had never really wanted to do. I had been happy to blend into the background and being thrust under the attention of the community that worked in the Opera and the outside public frightened me to death.

I couldn't help but wonder why they had decided to include me in the gala. The managers had not paid an ounce of attention to me before or after the announcement. In fact, I had suspicions that they weren't even allowed near me. Everywhere I went, I had the strangest feeling of someone watching me. No one approached me. Except for Monsieur Courtois, of course.

I exited the Opera, heading back to my home. The sun was warm for once and was shining brightly in the pale blue sky. If I looked towards the heavens, I could almost forget that I was in Paris and not in Upsala like I wished to be. Of course, the instant I looked down and saw the dirty streets of the city, my hopes were dashed and I was forced to realise that I was indeed in a place I despised.

I lived with my Mama Valerius in a small apartment in Paris. She was wonderful to me, and she always had been. I had lived with her for years, from a very young age when my father was still alive, and she had continued to look after me when he had died. However, the poor woman was old and sick now, and every day I watched her deterioration with the same sadness that I had felt for my father.

I didn't head straight home as I had intended. I was simply wandering for a while, looking through the shop windows at objects I could never afford and pretending that I was a lady of breeding who actually could. I never expected to bump into anyone I knew, but my daydreaming was interrupted by a very familiar, very beautiful voice.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, why are you walking around in Paris by yourself?"

I jumped and turned to face him, completely startled by his sudden, almost ghostlike appearance by my side.

"It… it's… a lovely day… outside today… for a walk, I mean." I was stammering. I sounded like a petulant child who had just been caught doing something naughty. I could not meet his eyes. I knew that if I did, I would be caught in the same spell from before and I would never break from it.

I could feel Erik Courtois' eyes burning a hole in the top of my head and I was glad that I was looking at the floor so that he couldn't see the blood rush to my cheeks. It felt like hours before he said anything.

"I think I need to give you a lift home, Christine."

"Oh… okay," I said, as quiet as a church mouse. I still didn't look at his face as I took a hold of his offered arm and he led me over to his carriage, helping me up into it. I smoothed my skirt nervously as he came around the other side, informing the driver of my address, then seating himself next to me in the close confines of the carriage.

The atmosphere was tense on the ride back. I could feel his body heat and I suddenly felt far too warm. It was as though he was burning me, though he wasn't touching me at all, and it scared me to death. I began to wish that this torture he had devised would soon be over. But it was still a while before we reached Mama Valerius's apartment.

The driver pulled up out the front and opened Monsieur Courtois's door, who jumped out. I assumed it would also be the driver who would help me out of the carriage. But it was Erik who opened the door and offered me his hand, seeming like he was almost daring me to refuse. And despite trying my hardest to keep my eyes from his face, I managed to trap myself as I got out of the carriage.

His eyes were warm and bore into mine and I could feel butterflies dance in my stomach. It felt like an eternity before he looked away.

"Go inside," he said. "It's getting cold, and I don't want my star to have a sore throat in time for the gala."

I obeyed him without hesitation. And it wasn't until much, much later that I wondered how he had ever known where I lived.

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Saturday morning was overcast and a little dreary. It was with a little bit of dread that I pulled myself from my warm bed and got dressed for the day. I should have been thrilled about the opportunity, but once again I wanted to blend into the surroundings. 

A few hours later, I stood in the Garnier, watching people rush around with their last minute preparations. However, the most interesting thing occurring was a very heated discussion taking place between Messrs Debienne and Poligny and the resident composer.

"La Carlotta is a famous name – we cannot put an _understudy_ in her place!"

"Christine Daaé is no understudy, Debienne. She has as important a role as Carlotta herself."

"Look here, Monsieur Courtois, there will be refunds wanted if we put anything but a famous name in her place. The public expects a famous name!"

"La Daaé is better than that self-righteous cow and you know it! Put her in Carlotta's place!"

I didn't want to listen to the conversation at all. But they were so loud, I was surprised people were still continuing with their jobs rather than blatantly eavesdropping.

I was not one to eavesdrop, and I especially didn't want to know what the managers thought of me, so I walked on to my dressing room to get ready. There was not long until the performance would begin, and as usual, the diva, Carlotta, had left it until the last minute to inform the managers that she would not be performing.

I was dressed and warming up when a knock came at my door. The person at the other end did not wait until I admitted them, however. The door was opened after the first knock, and not by me. Standing at the door was my tutor, looking rather dashing in his eveningwear. He had changed after his discussion with the managers, and was looking rather happy about something.

"You will be singing the role of Marguerite at the gala, tonight," he informed me with a rare smile.

I didn't smile. "Oh," I said, a little wary. It seemed to me that Erik Courtois had simply been using me to prove how fantastic he was, and I didn't like it one bit. He didn't seem to realise that I was unhappy however.

"Be ready, Christine, the public expects a fantastic performance."

He was gone before I could utter a reply, leaving the room like a slippery eel. I sighed. It was bad enough that I had to sing Juliette, a role I'd worked on for weeks, but now also Marguerite, which I didn't know nearly as well?

Just under an hour later, I stood towards the side of the stage, about to give my second performance of the evening. Juliette's aria had been fine – not perfectly as was expected of me, but it was good enough for no one but my tutor to complain about. It was all nerves, I told myself. I had sung the piece flawlessly in my warm-ups and I had been hoping to do the same in the performance. No such luck, and now I was absolutely petrified of messing up this other piece.

I took a deep breath as the introduction began, and then I sang. I sang my heart out, sang as well as I had ever done before, perhaps even better. Where the courage had come I did not know, and it was almost as if I was watching myself sing from above the stage. I knew my singing was faultless, yet still the audience's appreciation of it at the end caught me off guard.

It was a standing ovation, but the effort I had put into my performance was catching up with me. My head began to spin and my knees grew weak and the thunderous applause was too much.

I had fainted before I hit the floor.

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Ew, I hate this chapter and I'll probably edit it a bit when I know where I want it to go. Though if I waited utill then to update it, it would probably be another month in coming. The only reason I posted it at all is because Bee won't update Das until I update LDTB, so Bee, you need to update now. 0:)

More deformed Raoul next chapter.


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